Les Jours de Semaine
by Kang Xiu
Summary: In which Courfeyrac begs a favour, recieves a letter, borrows a waistcoat, and is slashed with Feuilly.


Les Jours de Semaine  
  
It was a rather nice café. It was a quiet one, not too busy, and mostly full of people sitting at the little tables sipping coffee or tea, and eating buns and muffins, talking in soft voices to the sound of the rain outside.  
  
At one table by the large front window, a young man sat reading a letter with unnatural thoughtfulness. He was a handsome young man, with bright green eyes, sandy-brown hair, and a little sandy moustache, and he leaned back in his chair carelessly. In one slim, elegant hand, he held the letter, and with the other he tapped the tabletop softly.  
  
Finally he put the letter down and picked up the cup of tea in front of him on the table. I hate Thursdays, he thought to himself.  
  
"Courfeyrac!"  
  
At the sound of his name, Courfeyrac looked up over the rim of the cup.  
  
"Courfeyrac!" Jehan Prouvaire sat across from him, smiling all over his face. "I saw you were here, and I thought I'd say hello."  
  
"Mmm."  
  
"How are you? Do you often come here? It's a lovely little place, isn't it? I adore it. I come here all the time. I had no idea you did too!"  
  
"My darling little poet-boy, do slow down. I always come here, but usually not on Thursdays. However, I needed to meditate over a decent cup of tea, and could think of no better place." Carefully, he picked up the letter and folded it away in his sleeve.  
  
"Oh! May I sit with you and have a coffee?"  
  
"Well, I must admit I was contemplating leaving. But!" he declared, putting a hand on Jehan's arm, "That is easily changed. I've no pressing engagements. Yes; sit here."  
  
"Thank you," Jehan said, still smiling happily, as Courfeyrac called the waiter over.  
  
"Of course. Now, what makes you venture here in this dreadful weather?"  
  
"I was waiting for Combeferre. We're going to discussion of Greek philosophers with a group of people he knows, and he thought we might walk together if we met here. I think the rain might be too hard, though."  
  
"Nonsense. Rain is never too hard, particularly when Greek philosophers are at stake. He'll be here any moment. Meanwhile, you can keep me company."  
  
"Certainly."  
  
ourfeyrac was looking Jehan over intently. The dear boy was always so adorable, with that funny excited manner he had, delighted with everything. It was not Courfeyrac's sort of charm, but it was still charm, and very pleasant to look at. It was comforting as well. And Greek philosophers! Well, that was something only Combeferre could possibly have dreamed up as an afternoon out.  
  
Suddenly, he remembered a fancy he'd been meaning to follow up on for a little while. Perhaps it would take his mind off things.  
  
"I say, I imagine you're still writing poetry on a regular basis?"  
  
"Yes," Jehan beamed. "I try to write every evening, and oftener if I can. My Muse is kind to me now," he added, with an happy, secretive smile.  
  
"Good, good. Now I wonder--do you take requests?"  
  
"If you'd like me to write for you, I shall."  
  
"Thank you! Yes, I rather would. I'm afraid I have no talent in that area whatsoever. Terribly unfortunate. I think it would prove very useful. But at any rate, I've been imagining a composition of affection. In plain language, a love poem."  
  
"Oh, yes. That's no trouble at all. I could do that now, if you'd like."  
  
"No, Lord, not now. But I would like it soon, always assuming that's possible."  
  
"It is."  
  
"Well, thank you. It's lovely of you to put yourself to the trouble."  
  
"It's no trouble!"  
  
Courfeyrac smiled. "Of course not. --Oh, and there's Combeferre. How very convenient." He waved gaily, catching Combeferre's attention.  
  
"Courfeyrac, hallo! Jehan, I'm terribly sorry I'm late. I lost track of the time while I was at the library."  
  
"That's all right!" His eyes warm and delighted, Jehan got up from the table, and turned back only long enough to thank Courfeyrac for the coffee, assure him he would write the poem soon, and say good-bye, before he left excitedly with Combeferre.  
  
And again Courfeyrac sat alone.  
  
After a few moments, he paid and left as well, strolling home slowly through the rain.  
  
Thursday was a very unpleasant day. He wondered irritably why it nearly always rained on Thursdays, and swung the tip of his cane at pebbles in the street, trying to bat them in all directions.  
  
Rain and letters. There was always a letter, too, to add to the unpleasantness. It didn't matter what sort of letter it was or who it was from; it was always bad news if it was Thursday. This time, the letter was from his cousin, Danielle, informing him that his brother had fallen from a horse and was still unconscious after four days. Courfeyrac sighed and whacked out at another stone. That was just something his idiotic brother would do, fall off his bloody horse.  
  
"Courfeyrac."  
  
For the second time in the last hour, Courfeyrac heard someone hailing him. Again, he looked up, not particularly interested as to who was speaking.  
  
"Feuilly."  
  
Feuilly brushed his wet black hair from his face with the back of one hand, and gave Courfeyrac a sympathetic look. "It's hellish weather. What are you doing out in it?"  
  
"I don't know. Walking."  
  
"You're soaking. You shall be ill by to-morrow. Come with me, and I'll lend you a coat or dry clothes, or at least put you up until it stops."  
  
"Oh, I hardly think that nece--" Courfeyrac shivered.  
  
"Don't be an ass. Come along."  
  
Courfeyrac realised that he didn't feel up to arguing. He was freezing and dripping, and the prospect of dry clothes or a warmer coat was not uninviting. "All right, I shall." And he followed Feuilly home.  
  
Later, as he changed into some of Feuilly's worn, rough old clothing, he remembered that he'd put the letter up his sleeve. It was wet, and the ink had all run so that it was only barely legible. He crumpled it and dropped it on the floor, buttoning up the faded burgundy waistcoat that was a little too short for him.  
  
"I'm surprised you knew it was me, in that rain."  
  
"I could hardly mistake the bright red jacket. You're the only person I know who would wear something of that colour."  
  
"I dislike blending in," said Courfeyrac primly.  
  
"That's good. You don't." Feuilly gave him a look that was almost fond.  
  
"Excellent. Ah, Feuilly, one would think that someone of my good looks and good fortune and charm would be always happy, wouldn't one?"  
  
"Wouldn't one indeed," said Feuilly, making it a statement instead of a question.  
  
"Well, it's not so." With a great air of melancholy, Courfeyrac lay down on Feuilly's bed, and looked up at the ceiling. "Often, I am sad."  
  
"Are you? Why?" Feuilly sat beside him.  
  
"To tell you the truth, I've no idea. And now, my good man, if I may, I shall collect my wet clothes and be off. The things I now wear upon my handsome person I shall return at the nearest opportunity."  
  
"All right."  
  
Courfeyrac noted that Feuilly did not seem particularly sorry to see him go. He took his wet things off the back of the chair they'd been draped over, and made a little bow. Feuilly returned it politely.  
  
Going out the door, Courfeyrac reflected that Feuilly was probably the annoying sort of person who was irritated when he mused aloud about his unhappiness. The world was upsettingly full of such insensitive people, and it was very distressing to know that he could not even express sorrow about his life without offending them. These people would not be reasoned with, and were usually quite affronted when he tried to.  
  
"Courfeyrac!"  
  
Courfeyrac turned to see Feuilly trotting through the heavy rain, with something black in his arms.  
  
"What is it?" Courfeyrac asked, walking back to meet him.  
  
"It's a coat, you ass. What's the point in putting on dry clothes if you're just going to walk in the rain and get wet again?"  
  
"My mistake. Thank you." Courfeyrac pulled on the coat amiably, smiling at Feuilly. "Very considerate of you."  
  
"You're welcome," said Feuilly, and as he turned away, Courfeyrac heard him murmur, "Senseless..."  
  
Courfeyrac watched him walk back through the rain, and decided that he liked Feuilly very much. Between the fact that Feuilly'd braved what was promising to be a hideous thunderstorm just to give him a coat, and the annoying way he would only be sympathetic when it was actually deserved-- yes, he liked Feuilly quite a lot.  
  
The next afternoon, Courfeyrac sat around in Musain, with Feuilly's clothes (washed and pressed, which he'd charmed his landlady into doing) on the table in front of him, and tried to write a reply to Danielle's letter. Around five, Jehan came in, bubbling and delighted over something.  
  
"Courfeyrac! I've written your poem!"  
  
"Good heavens, have you already? Well, in that case, I must congratulate you on your quick work. Thank you."  
  
He took the poem, hoping he could distract himself from the tedious task of thinking what to tell Danielle that would seem suitably concerned and yet withdrawn. Sulkily, he thought that Danielle was not half so easy to charm as his landlady.  
  
"What do you think?"  
  
"Give me a moment; I've hardly begun."  
  
The moon shines white above the sand  
On this sand here and every beach   
And on this side of the ocean I stand   
You stand across and out of reach   
But give me all that Shakespeare wrote   
And every love poem aged and new   
Every love song's loveliest note   
And on those I will sail to you   
With the wings of lovers' feet   
By Isabella and Isolde   
Because you are faithful and you are sweet   
Shall together--at last--our love be told   
The moon will shine above the sand   
We'll keep heart in heart and hand in hand  
  
How sickening, thought Courfeyrac. "Thank you, Jehan," he said. "That is utterly lovely."  
  
Jehan glowed, in his usual way.  
  
"How was your gathering of philosophers?"  
  
"Oh! You mean our discussion. That was wonderful! Combeferre knows so much. He must read a new book every day." Jehan put a hand on his head, blushing and suddenly looking shy.  
  
"Mmm," Courfeyrac murmured, wondering when Jehan would go so he could burn the poem. He should have known better than to ask someone so obviously smitten to write him anything.  
  
At that moment, Feuilly entered, and he was saved.  
  
"Feuilly! Hallo, Feuilly! I have your things!"  
  
Feuilly came over. "So I see. That was good of you."  
  
"It was a nice waistcoat, but not at all my style," Courfeyrac smiled. He could hear Jehan being distracted by Combeferre.  
  
"Each to his own." Feuilly seated himself and picked up the poem idly. "What's this?"  
  
Courfeyrac affected innocence. "Something of Jehan's."  
  
"Er--yes."  
  
They fell silent. When Courfeyrac thought it was apparent they wouldn't talk any time soon, he took up his pen and began writing, or rather scratching out words, again.  
  
Finally Feuilly spoke. "I found a letter last night which I think was yours." He held out the crumpled, stained letter that was Danielle's.  
  
"Oh, that! Yes, that's mine. I'm trying to reply to it even now. Did you read it? I do hope you read it. I despise a person who doesn't read others' letters when he gets the opportunity."  
  
Feuilly flushed. "I--I did."  
  
"Good."  
  
"I'm very sorry about your brother's accident."  
  
"Oh, no, don't be. I keep telling myself I don't care at all. The boy is an utter fool, which is probably why my parents are so fond of him."  
  
"Courfeyrac..."  
  
"I say, may I take you to dinner? I've nothing to do to-night."  
  
Feuilly looked at him for a long time, until he considered retracting the invitation, and at last said, "All right."  
  
Lovely," Courfeyrac smiled again.  
  
Dinner was at Courfeyrac's favourite café, although he did not let Feuilly know this. Unlike the one he'd been in Thursday, this café was very full of people, all talking to one another and looking at everyone else. He stood out rather obviously. Although the other people were dressed either casually or even in worn clothes, he wore his best jacket, pale blue silk, which he was inordinately proud of. Feuilly, on the other hand, fit perfectly, and that was what he'd wanted.  
  
They made meaningless conversation all through the entrée, about Enjolras and Jehan and Greek philosophers, and how the wine was actually rather decent, with Courfeyrac inserting cheerful compliments and Feuilly talking and laughing only half-guardedly.  
  
Over dessert, Courfeyrac offered his best smiles and told Feuilly he was a wonder for various reasons. Through some topic or other, the fact that Feuilly painted fans came up, and Courfeyrac got himself invited back to Feuilly's home. He paid the bill for dinner before Feuilly could stop him, and insisted they go back at once to look at the paints, brushes, and delicate silk fans.  
  
As they walked, he draped his arm about Feuilly's shoulders and asked quiet little questions about how he felt. It was a warm, pleasant evening, but Courfeyrac wondered rather if Feuilly was tired.  
  
"How did you like that café?"  
  
"I liked it," said Feuilly softly.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
Courfeyrac kicked a stone, and watched it skitter ahead. "You know, I think I've forgotten your name."  
  
"Damien."  
  
"Mine is Zacharie."  
  
"I know that," Feuilly said, reproving, but he glanced affectionately at Courfeyrac.  
  
"That poem Jehan wrote... I would have given it to you if it'd hadn't been so horrid."  
  
Feuilly paused. "What?"  
  
"I would have given it to you. I had intended to romance you from afar as a secret admirer. But something delightful about you, Feuilly, is the fact that you would have absolutely refused to take it seriously. I think you would only have believed it if I'd done it in person. So I threw the whole thing up."  
  
"Oh..."  
  
"Did you enjoy dinner?"  
  
"Yes, yes, I did," Feuilly looked at him in bewilderment.  
  
"May I take you out again some time?"  
  
"I--all right."  
  
Suddenly, Courfeyrac stopped. "Ah, Damien, it is an unfortunate fact of life that many lovers go without having their love realised. But do you know, my darling? That may suit Prouvaire and his silly silliness, but me, me it doesn't." He kissed Feuilly elegantly, striking a pose without hardly knowing it.  
  
Feuilly kissed him back.  
  
And Courfeyrac thought pleasedly about the things he very much liked about Feuilly, and the disgusting love poem of Jehan's, and the unfortunate letter from Danielle that he hadn't yet answered, and he realised that although Thursday was a bastard of a day, Fridays were delightful indeed. 


End file.
